The Wistful Saga
The sound of the shattering was not a crash, but a sigh, a long, fractured exhalation that seemed to come from the very bones of the house. Inspector Thomas Whitmore stood in the center of the drawing room, the dust motes dancing in the slant of afternoon light that pierced the heavy velvet curtains, and watched the last shards of the porcelain cup settle onto the Persian rug. It was a fine...
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